Line of Questioning
by Bekkoni
Summary: Bruce has a habit of evading potentially embarrassing questions. Luckily, Clark knows how to get around this. One-shot.


Clark didn't particularly enjoy having to track down Bruce. Usually, it meant a long lecture from an angry Bat about how he was a _very busy man_, which frankly Clark didn't feel like he deserved most of the time. And yet, whenever someone had to track down Bruce for something, he was the one elected to do so—mostly because the others felt like Bruce liked him the best, whatever that actually meant.

Today, he was standing on the doorstep of Wayne Manor because Bruce hadn't turned in a set of Javelin blueprints that he'd been promising Mr. Terrific, and given the number of Javelins they went through on any given week, building new ones in a timely manner was rather important.

He rang the doorbell, and hoped that Alfred was home and not off grocery shopping or on some other errand.

"Hello, Mister Kent, always a pleasure." Thankfully, it was indeed Alfred who swept the door open with a practiced hand and gestured him inside. "Shall I put on some tea and sweets for a social call?"

"I'm afraid not," Clark said, and genuinely regretted it. Not only were Alfred's cookies legendary, but a social call with Bruce was always better than attempting to make him do something. "I just need to get some documents from Bruce. Do you know where he is? He didn't pick up his communicator when I tried to call."

"Ah," Alfred replied, with only enough of a sigh for a Superman to pick up on it. "Master Bruce is here. On the living room floor."

"Of course," It took Clark a minute to pick up on oddness of the statement. "Wait, are having him refinish the hardwood or something?"

"No," Alfred said, simply.

"Then what is he doing on the floor?"

"Well, sir, we both know that Master Bruce can be rather reluctant when it comes to sharing information he feels is potentially embarrassing to himself." With that, the butler turned and walked down the east hallway, away from the main living room, and as Clark suspected, away from the source of his annoyance.

Clark traversed the west hall alone (which was enough of a journey that he regretted not taking Alfred up on the tea, if not the sweets) and found the living room, with Bruce indeed lying on the floor. He was sprawled flat on his back, one arm flung over his face, looking simultaneously irritated and pained. Dick and Tim, Clark noticed, were nowhere to be found. Not a good sign.

"What the hell do _you_ want, Kent?"

Of course Bruce knows who he is from his footsteps. _Of course_.

"What are you doing on the floor?" Clark decided it was best to match a question with a question.

Bruce pulled his arm off his eyes long enough to give him a patented Batglare. "I threw my back out."

Clark sat down on the edge of the couch, looking down at Bruce. "How did you do that?"

"Surely you didn't come all the way to Gotham just to inquire about my health."

"You're right, I came here to get those Javelin blueprints that you told Terrific he would have today. Flash trashed another one, and we kinda need to start replacing them pretty soon here." Clark pretended not to see annoyance flash across Bruce's face. "But I don't think you really want to go climbing the hundred and fifty stairs down to the Batcave. So how bout you match me a question for a question and tell me what happened?"

"I'm human, that's what happened," Bruce snarled. "Also, I did break my back once, and that _does_ have some lasting repercussions."

"Alfred said you were being evasive."

With a burst of speed that was surprising for someone who had previously been lying prone on the floor, Bruce flipped over onto his elbows to look Clark in the eye. "You—_ow—_and my butler need to stop having little fireside chats about my welfare like I'm some sort of child who can't be trusted not to stick his finger in a light socket."

Then he fell back onto the floor with an audible grunt. "Ow. _Goddamnit._"

"Tell you what." Clark leaned forward, watching as Bruce shut his eyes and let out a breath through his nose. "You tell me what happened and I'll go fetch you an icepack and some ibuprofen. Or a heating pad. Whatever'll feel better."

Bruce opened one eye and actually considered the deal. "Maybe I already took painkillers."

Clark chuckled. "If you'd taken painkillers of your own volition, Alfred wouldn't be nearly so peeved right now."

Bruce just groaned. "My butler betrays me. I asked him for a sandwich and he actually refused. Apparently we've gotten to the point in our relationship where my getting hurt irritates rather than worries him."

"You do look pretty pathetic," Clark said. "It's kind of amusing. Now c'mon, how'd this happen?"

"I'm _Batman_! In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Invulnerable, that sometimes involves things like knives, guns, long falls, and other assorted dangerous situations."

"So that's what happened then?" Clark asked, with such false sincerity that even Bruce rolled his eyes. "You got hurt on patrol without Alfred, Dick, Tim or Barbara noticing until after the fact? Maybe you should take it easier."

"Are you calling me old?" Bruce sounded actually hurt.

"No, that's your vanity talking." Clark raised an eyebrow. "Oh, don't give me that look. Remember when Diana said that you having a grey hair was cute, and you yanked it out of your head? Very stereotypical billionaire of you."

"Shut up, Kent."

Clark sighed and slipped down to sit on the floor next to Bruce. The other man didn't react, maybe because he hoped that if he ignored the conversation, Clark would just go away. "You only call me Kent when you're frustrated, and you only resort to _shut up_ when you're at the end of your rope. So do I really have to push you any more?"

Honestly, Clark hadn't thought that would work. But Bruce lay still for a minute before opening his eyes and staring up at Clark. "Promise not to laugh."

That made Clark stop. "Oh god. Tell me Catwoman isn't involved in this story."

"No!" Bruce exclaimed, momentarily forgetting to stay still. He jerked, winced, and stopped again. "What are you picturing there, Clark? No—never mind. I don't want to know what you think I get up to with Selina. Look—I was fixing the Batmobile, okay? I was bent over, reaching across the engine, and—"

"—and _pop_?" Clark finished for him, with a sympathy wince.

"More like _twang_."

"Ouch." Clark said.

"You were right." Bruce worked himself up on his elbows so they were at eye level. "I am old. I can't even fix my car without pulling something. The blueprints for Mr. Terrific are on my desk in the library. I'd show you, but I'd probably trip and break my leg or something."

"As you pointed out, you did break your back once. Might make it a bit easier to injure later on." Clark watched Bruce's nostrils flare as he breathed through another wave of pain. "Just, for the love of god, take it easy and actually heal up this time, okay? Now come on, heat or ice? I did promise."

"Ice," Bruce groaned. "And don't forget the ibuprofen."

"Anything else, your highness?" Clark couldn't resist a final poke.

"Yeah, stop being a jackass and don't tell Alfred about this. _Or_ the boys. They'd never let me hear the end of it."

"Your terribly, terribly embarrassing secret is safe with me." Clark made sure to cover his mouth with his hand to hide another almost-chuckle. He'd seen Bruce snap his tibia like a twig, and yet it was this he actually complained about. Bruce certainly wasn't about to see the humor in the situation any time soon, but Clark couldn't resist a smile as he got up to go to the kitchen.


End file.
